One Month

Well, it’s been one month in this motherfucking freakshow. San Francisco, that is. Not San Fran — that is not the preferred nomenclature, friends from that faraway coast and elsewhere. Just a friendly heads up for your green asses.

Anyway, one month. In these past four weeks and some change, I’ve learned that rumors of an abundance of human excrement on public sidewalks are, indeed, not rumors, my bedroom setup still looks like a bonus scene fromTrainspotting, and so far, only three people have responded to my Craigslist “rooms wanted” ad — two middle-aged gay men who sent selfies, and one gay man whose age I could not determine because he only sent a picture of his naked ass. I could, however, tell that it was a man, because his testicles were also present in the photograph, hanging like a pair of ripe muscadines. So yeah, really crushing it out here.

As I write this shit, I’m posted up Indian style on my knockoff tempurpedic mattress, which lies directly upon my dust-covered hardwood floor, void of any sort of accompanying box spring or bed frame. My cross-legged, hunched over stance is a position that’s become quite common, since this little slice of generic brand heaven is literally the sole item of furniture I’ve procured since busking my ass out here with three duffel bags of clothing last month. And by busking I mean flying Virgin. Really just a quality airline.

But as I’m sitting here, looking like a battered gypsy while surely developing some sort of spinal stenosis, I’m reflecting on my short time here. And I’m realizing I’ve already discovered a few peculiarities around town.

Notably, at the grocery store, where humans will legitimately stand directly in the middle of the aisles for 15 minutes while feebly holding onto their cart with one hand and admiring a can of pumpkin-acorn soup for any trace of gluten with the other, completely oblivious to other patrons attempting to maneuver the roadblock they’ve created.

Also, on public transit, where humans rather not work their way towards the doors with strategy and care as the overcrowded car is nearing their stop, but instead wait until the doors have already opened to push and shove their way through the aforementioned overcrowded car while huffing and puffing and saying things like, “come on people, we do this everyday!”

Oh, and then there are the roadways, where humans seem to have created methods of incorporating a motor and an app onto most any breed of traditionally human-powered vehicle, such as the stand-up scooter, the bicycle, and even the skateboard, piloting their vehicle-of-choice down crowded streets, looking very unsure of themselves all the while.

Ah, yes, one mustn’t forget the workplace, where one solitary men’s restroom containing two stalls and two urinals is massively overpopulated by a workforce of nearly one hundred seemingly despondent men with high fiber diets, many of whom would rather sit on a toilet bowl for 48 minutes straight and develop blistering hemorrhoids than carry out the responsibilities of their miserable employer. The oddities surrounding the workplace restroom are wide ranging. Aside from inconsiderate stall dwellers, it also seems as though a group of Icelandic Vikings pay a visit to the aforementioned pair of urinals on a daily basis strictly to comb their pubic hair and leave the remains behind. And on the not-so-rare occasion that one man enters the stall to perform a movement while another is in the process of dropping his kibbles right next-door, the former typically becomes a little gun shy, silencing his personal episode like a bashful schoolgirl, waiting to let ’er rip until the latter finishes up and leaves him in solitude.

But then there are also the humans that choose deep hugs over handshakes during introductions and, shortly thereafter, offer you illicit substances while you are touring the open room for rent in their apartment. And those others that remind you of your father and his old friends who won’t take no for an answer when they offer you tequila shot after tequila shot at 11:00am on a Sunday morning after discovering you’re from Philadelphia and understand that Cheese Whiz is, indeed, a delicacy. One also shan’t ignore the humans who not only retrieve your keys after they unknowingly fall from your pocket while bicycling at the pace of a peregrine falcon, but then track you down over the next 7 blocks to return them.

It has been one month. It has felt like one year. My heart and soul flutter from day to day like a pair of confused ass fledglings, still pretty damn unsure of themselves, but gaining strength with each flight. (You catch that? That was a powerhouse fucking analogy.) It’s one hell of a messy situation, really. But this chaos breeds progress. Either that, or homelessness, insanity, and a blossoming case of alcoholism. But hey, I guess only time will tell!

This post was originally published on my Medium.